Confused, I wait as
We skulk the halls
With furtive glances.
What and why? We don’t
Know. But the wrath is real—
As I snatch your shoulder— as your body
Whips around.
The palette still drying.

Oh yes, we laugh—later. We
Giggle over our own folly. Yet—
I look down, and near my feet
A plastic palette lies.
Remnants of cheap dry paint, little scabs
Of purple, crimsons, blacks.
I look at you, and—even as we laugh—my smile
Fades.